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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25193296">In these days of cool reflection</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/geewritessometimes/pseuds/geewritessometimes'>geewritessometimes</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman &amp; Terry Pratchett</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Crowley is Whipped (Good Omens), Fantasizing, Getting Together, Historical References, M/M, Pining, am I right, who doesn't love a good byzantine mosaic</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 08:56:36</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>9,994</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25193296</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/geewritessometimes/pseuds/geewritessometimes</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>A chronology of Crowley's fantasies about Aziraphale throughout the ages (plus the night they all finally come true).</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>132</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>In these days of cool reflection</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This is what happens when a history major tries to write fanfiction. Sorry. I highly recommend you google the Slaughter of 1354 because it is hilarious</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>He senses it when God deposits Aziraphale in the soft grass directly in front of the eastern gate of the Garden. Being a demon gives him a sixth sense for the immediate presence of good as well as evil, and as a former angel, he knows exactly what goodness smells like. This particular force of goodness smells especially warm and sweet to him, and his forked tongue unconsciously dips into the air to taste it better. On autopilot, he slithers out of the tree branches he’d been tangled around and makes his way up to perch on the rampart of the northern wall. Far down below he observes a humanoid creature clothed in white, smiling sweetly upon the lush foliage and the two humans playing in the pond in the distance. He’s holding a flaming sword in his right hand, which he keeps at a non-confrontational angle at his side. His cherubic face is so visibly full of love and joy and appreciation for divine creation that it’s arresting. Crawly twists his body to get a better view, but in a flash, the angel moves forward and vanishes into the dense trees. A strange sense of disappointment seizes Crawly, who quickly shakes it off and slithers back to his perch in the apple tree. Just another angel. Nothing to get worked up over.  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He soon finds himself very much worked up over this angel. He’d been sliding through the underbrush, just wandering aimlessly without any purpose in mind, idly trying to think of ways to cause trouble, when he catches the scent of fresh water and sweet goodness. It’s enticing. He continues on and happens upon a still turquoise pool, ensconced in lush trees and fragrant pink flowers. On its banks, sitting half-submerged in the water, is the angel of the eastern gate he’d seen earlier. Nude, bathing. His flaming sword sits at his side on the shore, handle driven into the sand to keep it upright. Crawly conceals himself in the shrubbery and watches.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The angel is smiling, slowly pouring water over his bent legs with his cupped hands. Crawly finds the sight oddly affecting. The clear water runs over his skin in rivulets, making them shine in the soft sunlight. He watches on as now and then, the angel dips the tips of his wings into the pond, swirling the water around gently, and then shaking them out. When he’s finished with washing his beautiful milky-white legs, he turns his attention to the surrounding flowers: he beams at them so tenderly, brushing their pink petals with his thumb, and whispering affections to them. He catches sight of a bud which has not yet bloomed, and cups it in his hands. Light issues forth, and in his hand, the flower opens up to full size. It makes his smile even bigger, and he leans forward and gently kisses the newly-emergent petals. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Near-painful warmth swells in Crawly’s chest, so powerful that it robs him of his breath and he has to look away. He quickly hurries himself away from the mesmerizing vision in the pond, back to his apple tree, but it does not dispel the feeling that has grown inside him. He hasn’t felt love since his time as an angel, and that was long enough ago that he’d forgotten the sensation. He fears that he might again be… feeling it. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>As the days pass, Crawly grows increasingly powerless against the emotions rising within him. He spends most of his time observing the angel from afar, hidden in the shadows of the underbrush or concealed in the trees. He spends more time in his humanoid form, scrutinizing his appearance in his reflection in the water. As if the angel gives two shits what he looks like. As if the angel wouldn’t be repulsed by him for his very nature. But Crawly can’t stay away. He’d spend eternity just watching that angel, hoping for a moment alone with him. The angel makes him want to abandon his associations with Hell. Makes him think of nothing else. Makes him mad with longing. Demons could learn a thing or two about temptation from this particular creature. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s evening, on the sixth day, and Crawly is once again watching the angel. He’s tangled up in the branches of the apple tree as usual, and the angel is lounging in the grass immediately below. It’s the closest he’s ever been to him, and his heart is pounding. The angel had clearly noticed him, and appeared determined to thwart Crawly’s efforts to tempt Adam and Eve into eating the apples (obviously that was his plan; it was the only rule there for Crawly to tempt them into breaking). </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crawly is too nervous to try speaking to the angel now, but he fantasizes. He would probably slither down from the tree and curl up next to him, and transform into a more palatable humanoid version of himself. He’d give himself long, luxurious, curly red hair and a handsome profile. The angel would be dazzled, and would </span>
  <em>
    <span>have </span>
  </em>
  <span>to speak to him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>What would he say?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That was the problem. There was nothing to talk to him about. </span>
  <em>
    <span>How about them apples, eh? Nice weather we’re having. I like that sword you’ve got there; want to see mine? </span>
  </em>
  <span>No, no, all wrong. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>So forego the talking altogether. Maybe Crawly could transform next to the angel and then just glance at him, meet his eyes and hold them. He could miracle up a little flower to offer him, since he seemed to like those. Maybe something white and sweet-smelling, just like him. The angel would be so charmed that his cheeks would go all pink, and then Crawly would cup his face ever so gently and press a kiss to his cheek. The angel would make a little </span>
  <em>
    <span>eep </span>
  </em>
  <span>of surprise, but he’d been secretly pining for Crawly too, and so he’d allow it. And then Crawly would slither back up into the tree, leaving the angel blushing and twitterpated below.   </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yeah right. If Crawly even </span>
  <em>
    <span>tried </span>
  </em>
  <span>it, the angel would pick up that flaming sword and sever his head from his body. At best. At worst, he’d smite him with all his holy might and destroy him for good. Crawly surprises himself with the realization that he finds the thought kind of… hot. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Regardless, Crawly does </span>
  <em>
    <span>not </span>
  </em>
  <span>slither down from his branch and attempt any seduction of any pretty angels, because he is not a </span>
  <em>
    <span>complete</span>
  </em>
  <span> nincompoop. He contents himself to just close his eyes and dream. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Of course, because God hates Crawly, it turns out that Aziraphale’s personality outshines the beauty of his corporeal form a million times over, which seals Crawly’s eternal fate for good. He resigns himself to being hopelessly in love for the rest of space and time. And, because God </span>
  <em>
    <span>really </span>
  </em>
  <span>hates him, he can't seem to stop running into the guy. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s 168 BC, and Crawly is hanging out in Jerusalem. More specifically, the Temple, second of two. He’d been told off for not securing enough souls for Hell as of late, and so is half-heartedly trying to think of trouble he can cause (as if the people of Jerusalem aren’t already masters of causing their own trouble). He’s strolling idly underneath the shaded colonnade hemming the dais when he catches sight of a familiar face a few dozen yards ahead of him. He restrains a smile and approaches. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hello Aziraphale.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale startles, and looks up at him. “Oh. Hello again, what. Crawly.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What are you doing here?” Crawly circles him, smirking. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ve heard that Antiochus is on his way to Jerusalem. He’s meant to be heading towards Antioch, and has detoured inland for reasons which might potentially be sinister. I’m here in case… Well, in case anything untoward happens.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why would anything untoward happen? It’s his city, innit?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale frowns. “Technically, it is. But </span>
  <em>
    <span>rightfully…</span>
  </em>
  <span>” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Right, right, let’s not start this debate about Seleucid imperialism. I’m asking if you have reason to think he’s planning something.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, rumor has it that he’s caught wind of the little spat between Jason and Menelaus. And, of course, the long-standing conflict between the traditionalists and the hellenized Jews. I just worry that he’s fed up with the turmoil and plans to… Well. Quash it. He wants a Greek Judea, after all, and only half of Jerusalem is on board.” Aziraphale suddenly leans in closer, conspiratorial. “I’ve even heard rumors that Jason was the one to invite him to the city in the first place.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crawly raises an eyebrow in pretend fascination. What are the wiles of humanity to him, really. It’s only to be expected. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale’s predictions turn out to be right. Antiochus enters Jerusalem and lays waste to the Temple and the Temple Quarter. For the life of him, Crawly can’t understand the logic; it’s the lower classes that dislike him, not the priests and the wealthy cosmopolitans. Tensions immediately heighten, as if they weren’t high enough already- and the fact that High Priest Jason supposedly invited the fool inside the city walls in the first place means that there damn well might be a full-scale riot on their hands. He’s already hearing rumors about some fellow from Modiin by the name of Mattathias gathering a rebellion with plans to enter the city and reclaim the Temple. Hell sends him a commendation for excellent job performance, and he didn’t even have to lift a finger. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He runs into Aziraphale again a few years later in the Lower City, when the revolt is at its apex. He’s distributing bread to the poor, who’ve had next to no grain thanks to the pillaging and burning going on beyond the walls. Crawly waits until he’s finished, and then approaches. He catches up to him in an alleyway. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fancy running into you twice in the same decade.” is his opening line.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale pins him with sky-blue eyes. “Ah. Hello again. Still up to no good?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Aw, come on. Course not. Who do you think I am?” Crawly teases. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A demon!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crawly shrugs. “Technically. What are you up to? Good?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Naturally. I’m on my way to the gate, in fact. I have a feeling tonight is the night Judah Maccabeus and his men will finally seize the Temple.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, you’re on his side, are you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale sighs. “I don’t know whose side I’m on. I’m just trying to act as damage control.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mm. Need a hand?” He’s not sure why he offers. The words just sort of fall out of his mouth. It’s just too Aziraphale, trying to keep everyone safe all the time. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale frowns at him, puzzled. “You want to help me… Restrain the violence? But you’re a demon.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fuck, alright, forget I said anything.” Crawly throws his hands up. “Offer to do something nice for once, and just-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, no. Far be it from me to prevent you from doing good deeds. You’re welcome to assist me, if that’s what you really want.” Aziraphale backtracks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mmph.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Crawly ends up helping. Whatever, he just wants an excuse to spend time with Aziraphale. Judah Maccabeus does in fact breach the walls that evening, aided by traditionalists inside the city. Together, they follow the rampaging men from the Lower City Gate through the streets towards the Mount. He rattles off too many miracles to count- a near miss from the swing of a sword, extinguishing fires before they can swallow an innocent family’s home, that sort of thing. These sorts of skirmishes almost always involve rape of the womenfolk, and he also cheerfully sedates every single soldier he sees who so much as looks like he might be contemplating the idea. Under normal circumstances, he would snuff the life out of them and send them straight down to Hell, but Aziraphale is beside him, and he would probably be upset. In no time at all, they’ve reached the Temple. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Judah Maccabeus ascends with a cohort of trusted companions, leaving the rest of the army to fend off the Greek soldiers. Crawly and Aziraphale sneak in behind them. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The sanctuary is just as Antiochus left it however many years ago. Everything has been smashed to bits, and there is even a marble statue of Zeus near the altar. Crawly grimaces, and wonders when the Seleucids are ever going to learn any tact. He and Aziraphale linger unseen in the shadows at the fringes of the space, watching on as Judah re-lights the candles with his last few drops of oil. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s not gonna last more than a night.” Crawly murmurs. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale tilts in his head, pondering. Then he snaps his fingers. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They stay there for a few nights, as Aziraphale’s a bit worried that the Greeks will burst through the Maccabean defense, enter the sanctuary, and destroy everything again. The candles burn day and night and the oil never runs dry. They wait for one of Judah’s men to come and bring the news that the Greeks have been repelled. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They lounge against the wall in the darkened corner near the doors, watching. Aziraphale is close enough that their shoulders are </span>
  <em>
    <span>almost </span>
  </em>
  <span>brushing, and Crawly feels like he’s on bloody fire. Can you blame him? The light is all dim and romantic, they’ve just worked together on something for the first time ever, and Aziraphale is being lenient enough with him that they’re almost touching. Even if he didn’t have wings, he’d feel like he could fly to the moon. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He wants so badly to put his arm around Aziraphale. He wants to pull him close, wants Aziraphale to rest his head on his shoulder. His angel is tired, he can tell- so many miracles in such a short span of time really wears you down. He’d press a soft kiss to the top of his head; tell him </span>
  <em>
    <span>it’s okay, you can fall asleep. I’ll be here to protect you. </span>
  </em>
  <span>And Aziraphale would resist at first, tell him </span>
  <em>
    <span>no, my side wouldn’t like that at all, I can’t snuggle with a demon!  </span>
  </em>
  <span>But then he’d remember how he trusts Crawly, how he really does want to be closer, and he’d give in. And Crawly would watch over him while he napped, and incinerate anyone who even thought about laying a finger on him. He’d hold him there, in the sanctuary, and just bask in the feeling of loving him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maybe that’s a blasphemous fantasy. Maybe he shouldn’t be thinking about this while sitting in front of the holiest altar of YHWH. Yeah, probably not. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>So he doesn’t put his arm around Aziraphale, and he resolutely refuses to keep dreaming about it.</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s 545 AD and Crowley has been traipsing along the eastern coast of the Italian peninsula. He’d been in Rome during the deposition of Romulus Augustus at the hands of Odoacer in 476 (which was just sweet, sweet irony- the Western Roman Empire both beginning and ending with a Romulus), and afterwards, he decided to meander around Italy as the Ostrogoths and whatnots flooded in. He dabbled in being the Black Knight in Wessex for a bit too, tried to actually do his job for once, but the impossibility of getting anything done with Aziraphale out there too, thwarting him, made him throw in the towel pretty quick. He returned to Italy. And now it’s already been more than sixty years. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s just reached Ravenna. It’s late spring, and everything is in full bloom. The town isn’t quite as filthy as most others; it’s got nicely cobbled streets rather than dirt roads, and everyone everywhere has got their shutters open to let in the fresh breeze. There are women pumping water from the well in the main square, and others doing the washing in their courtyards. Merchants line the streets, hawking fruit and grain and fish. Doesn’t matter, cuz none of that is what Crowley’s here for. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The bishop is almost finished with the new cathedral that they started building in 526, the one dedicated to San Vitale. He’s heard that the mosaics and the colors are absolutely unprecedented, and he’s always liked a bit of art, so he’s on his way to see them. The basilica (</span>
  <em>
    <span>why do they call it a basilica?</span>
  </em>
  <span> he wonders. It’s not even remotely shaped like a basilica) sits on the fringes of town, and is enclosed in a lovely, lush yard. A cobbled path leads up to the double doors. Crowley ignores the “Keep Out” sign and heads in. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oi! You there! Construction isn’t finished yet! No visitors allowed!” Some horrible little architect starts wailing as soon as Crowley’s sandals touch the marble floor. Crowley waves his hand and the little goblin shuts up. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s just as beautiful as he’d been led to believe. The real masterpiece is the nook where the altar sits: the mosaics there are completely finished, and they’re unlike anything Crowley’s ever seen. They’ve been done in hues of yellow and green, and the glass windows have been stained a very delicate yellow as well, so that the light filtering in is soft and warm like sunshine. It looks like springtime tangible. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s as his eyes are traveling down the left wall of the nook that he spots a familiar head of white hair, standing with his back to Crowley as he converses with one of the mosaicists. His heart palpitates a little. Withstanding Aziraphale’s charms is difficult enough as it is, nevermind when the weather and atmosphere are as soft and romantic as they are here. Why does God keep threading their paths together like some sort of sadistic crocheter? But, like hell is he gonna pass up an opportunity to see his angel. He saunters over and butts into the conversation. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Lovely job you’ve done here.” he says. “Love all that- green stuff and yellow stuff and whatnot.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale’s eyes pop and his jaw drops a little in surprise. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Er, who are you?” the mosaicist asks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Friend of his.” Crowley jabs his thumb at Aziraphale. Then he gives the fellow the most menacing stare he can from behind the glasses. It works- he starts to sweat and stumbles away to get back to work. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh Crowley, you didn’t have to do that.” Aziraphale scolds, having recovered from his shock. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley ignores it. “Done with being the White Knight, then?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I heard they were nearly finished here, and I wanted to see the mosaics. I’m heading back to Wessex afterwards.” he answers primly.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I wanted to see ‘em too. Love what they did with the windows, eh?” Crowley gestures. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale </span>
  <em>
    <span>lights up. </span>
  </em>
  <span>“Oh, yes, </span>
  <em>
    <span>quite</span>
  </em>
  <span>! The tinting is so subtle, but it makes a </span>
  <em>
    <span>world </span>
  </em>
  <span>of difference, doesn’t it? It’s like standing in a sunny meadow! Did you see Theodora and her retinue?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nah, got to about the bottom of the left wall before I noticed you standing over here.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, well, </span>
  <em>
    <span>come on</span>
  </em>
  <span> my dear fellow! Let me show you!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale leads him back over to the wall on the right of the altar. Near the bottom is a mosaic image of the Byzantine Empress Theodora and her handmaidens. It’s glorious work. There really are no better mosaicists than the Byzantines. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you notice anything… odd?” Aziraphale encourages. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley frowns and studies the image. “That bird’s looking in the wrong direction.” One of Theodora’s serving girls is looking off to the right, away from the entourage, instead of ahead or at Theodora herself. She looks a little… shady. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t call ladies ‘birds’, Crowley. But you’re quite right.” Aziraphale is positively bubbling with excitement. He starts whispering. “I’ve heard rumors that she was one of the Empress’ handmaids until quite recently, when she was discovered having an adulterous affair with one of the men of the court! Of course, the mosaic was already nearly complete, and they couldn’t just remove her and start all over. And so, the artist made her look away instead.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Huh. Well, if we’re going to get into the business of adulterous affairs and sexual escapades and all that, I’ve heard Theodora herself-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, come now. Probably just slanderous rumors concocted by men who feel threatened by her power.” Aziraphale counters with a sniff. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Right.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A surprisingly companionable silence falls. Crowley admires the artwork, but he’s also hyperaware of Aziraphale beside him, being friendlier than usual. Crowley clears his throat. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Heard the Mausoleum of Galla Placidia is around here, too.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Indeed it is! Just out the back there. I’ll show you.” Aziraphale says, eager. They head to the rear doors. “Although, I’m afraid I must inform you, Galla Placidia is not actually buried there.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What! Why the hell did they name it that, then?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She was the patron, I believe.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hmph.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They meander along the cobbled path in the rear courtyard at a leisurely pace. It really is a beautiful afternoon; the sun is shining, plants are blooming, birds are singing. Crowley really doesn’t care about seeing any damn mausoleum, he just wants to be spending time with Aziraphale. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’ve grown your hair out.” Aziraphale suddenly remarks. “I couldn’t see it underneath the helmet in Wessex.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mm. Just a bit. Liked the look Theodoric had going on.” Crowley replies. “You haven’t changed a bit. Not in 4500 years.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ah, well. Not quite sure what I would change. Maybe-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t.” Crowley interrupts before he knows what he’s doing. “You look- erm. You’re just fine. As you are. You know. Tolerable.” He coughs. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He feels Aziraphale’s curious eyes on him, but doesn’t look. He isn’t saying anything, but he also hasn’t turned heel and run away, so maybe Crowley hasn’t just made a </span>
  <em>
    <span>complete </span>
  </em>
  <span>embarrassment of himself. Maybe he can weasel his way into a bit more time with his angel. He lets a moment pass before asking. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hungry?” he asks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mm, quite.” Aziraphale answers. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, why don’t we have a picnic? Perfect weather for it.” Crowley suggests. He’s not begging. He’s not. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I-I-I don’t know, that might not be-” Aziraphale starts stammering, which is how Crowley knows he wants to say yes but thinks he shouldn’t. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Come on! Just a picnic! I’ll miracle all the food and the blanket. You don’t have to lift a finger. I’ll even promise to stay out of England. You will have banished me for good from the kingdom of dear King Arthur. All you need to do is have lunch with me.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He sees the gears turning in Aziraphale’s head, churning up justifications. He finally smiles a bit. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well. If it will keep you from spreading any more ‘foment’, then I suppose it would be the right thing to do.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Exactly.” </span>
</p><p><span>And so they give up on visiting the mausoleum and have a picnic instead. Crowley miracles them some nice red wine, some bread and cheese, grapes, and some κουλούρια</span> <span>and honey, to fit the Byzantine theme. Aziraphale chatters about Wessex politics, and also some bloke from Nursia by the name of Benedict who apparently founded some new monastic order and was a personal friend of his. But all Crowley can focus on is him; not his words but the way he moves as he says them. All he sees are blue, blue eyes, a sweet smile, pink lips. It nearly undoes him when Aziraphale eats a grape and then sucks the juice off his fingers. </span></p><p>
  <span>If he was bolder (and if he wasn’t positive that Aziraphale would tear his limbs off), he would push him down onto his back and kiss him. In a distant sort of way, he knows that Aziraphale thinks of him more tenderly than he lets on. He’s not certain how deep the angel’s affection goes, but it’s definitely there. Crowely wants to tease it out, bring it to the surface. He won’t, because Aziraphale doesn’t want that, but he wishes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He imagines pushing Aziraphale down and clambering over him. The dappled sunlight filtering through the bough of the olive tree overhead would speckle his face and neck, and Crowley would add his own kisses to the masterpiece. Aziraphale, softened by the warm breeze and birdsong, would throw caution to the wind and loop his arms around Crowley’s shoulders, pulling him down and against his body. Crowley would kiss him on the lips then. He would taste like grapes and honey. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’d say, </span>
  <em>
    <span>I love you angel. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>And Aziraphale would say it back. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His mind then shows him an image of Aziraphale’s bare thigh hooked over his own hip, and his hands sliding up the back of it, up into-</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He takes a deep breath and crushes the thought. He tries his best not to fantasize about Aziraphale in an overly-sexual way (and frequently fails), feels disrespectful, but doing it literally in his presence is definitely transgressing the border of politeness. He forces himself to refocus on what Aziraphale is saying. But that doesn’t quite stop the wanting. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale gets called back to Heaven during the Black Plague. He doesn’t go quietly- he laments to Crowley for an entire day. They told him that it was necessary, that it would cleanse Europe of the evildoers and allow everything to start fresh, and that he would be required to remain in Heaven for the duration of the preliminary outbreak because they didn’t want him performing any miracles or saving lives. It’s only just reached Sicily, but it’s apparently going to get much, much worse. He’s deeply distraught. Crowley is disturbed by the order too, but focuses on comforting Aziraphale. He’s never seen Aziraphale cry before. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Objectively, I understand. I do. But practically… Surely a sinner can be redeemed? Isn’t there any place for forgiveness? Why kill them all? Why not be patient with them?” He says it like he’s genuinely expecting Crowley to have answers. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley has no idea what to say. He places an arm around Aziraphale’s shoulders instead of speaking, like he dreamed of doing all those centuries ago. This isn’t at all the context he wanted to do it in. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll still be here. I can do a few miracles for you, if you want.” he offers quietly as Aziraphale sniffles. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale wipes his eyes and looks up at him. “Would you really?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Course.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, Crowley. That would be very nice.” he says wetly. “I’ll repay you, of course. When I come back, I’ll help you with whatever it is you’re up to.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No need.” Crowley squeezes his shoulder. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale ascends back to Heaven later that evening. The look of gratitude he gives Crowley before vanishing makes his heart clench up tight and achy. After he’s seen him off, he meanders back through the alleys and over the bridges of Venice to the room he’s staying in on the Grand Canal. He’d been in England until Aziraphale contacted him with the unfortunate news, and then he came to Italy to see him. The plague will be in Pisa, Genoa, and Venice in a matter of weeks at this rate, and from there, nowhere in Europe will be safe. As such, this should be the ideal place to perform some sneaky miracles, so he’s going to stay put. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s a lot like the Flood. He would have expected </span>
  <em>
    <span>his</span>
  </em>
  <span> people to propagate something like this but instead, again, it’s Heaven. He thinks bitterly that Heaven isn’t worthy of Aziraphale’s compassionate heart. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He spends the next ten years performing little miracles whenever possible, but the magnitude of the disease is beyond the ability of one single demon. He does his best to help in Venice, though perhaps he ought to have stationed himself somewhere else, or moved around. By the time he gets word that almost 80% of Florence’s population have died, it’s too late. By the time the decade is over and the outbreak has calmed down somewhat, he’s exhausted. He’s not sure when Aziraphale is coming back, but he’s confident that he’ll be able to find Crowley when he does. So, he finally leaves Venice in 1357 and returns to England, settles in Oxford because it’s a comparatively nice, sleepy college town. Well. It’s sleepy now that the Slaughter of 1354 is over and done with and the townsfolk have had their fill of lynching the university scholars. Whatever. He gets a room at a hall on the main road. It’s barely a week later that he hears a knock at his door. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale is somber, but grateful. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I watched over you, whenever I could stand to look.” he says. “Thank you-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t say that.” Crowley grumbles. “Didn’t make much of a difference anyways.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale shakes his head. “You made a difference to the people you saved.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hmph.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They go for a stroll around the university that afternoon. It’s been an odd, isolated haven of sorts; they never closed their doors, even at the height of the outbreak. Students went about their usual business, even as everything was ending around them. It’s a Sunday, so most of them are out in the recreational fields just outside town, but there are a few Masters of Arts strolling about in their robes. It’s autumn, Michaelmas term if Crowley remembers the order correctly, and the leaves are going orange and drifting about lazily. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think I might get cozy in London, now that this is all done with.” Aziraphale says conversationally. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s funny, I was thinking the same thing. Might wait ‘til the 60s, though. Wanna sleep here for a few years first.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, dear. You must be exhausted.” Aziraphale says, suddenly realizing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Little bit.” Crowley admits quietly. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale stays with him in his room for one blessed night, because there isn’t a single cart south until tomorrow. It thrills Crowley so much that he completely forgets about being tired. He lies in the bed, trying unsuccessfully to sleep, while Aziraphale reads quietly at the desk. Really, he just stares at Aziraphale’s back, illuminated with candlelight like a halo.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Someone’s gonna put you up in front of the Chancellor for keeping odd hours, angel.” he finally says, voice coming out rumbly and deep. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do they do that here?” Aziraphale looks at him over his shoulder. It feels scandalous; Crowley sprawled out on a bed, shirtless, Aziraphale staring him down.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh yeah. This town is full of nothing but snitches. They get off on getting each other arrested. People have been arrested just for being outside after dark.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I suppose there’s some pressure to maintain order and dignity for the sake of the scholars.” Aziraphale hypothesizes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Psh. The university boys are the ones who start most of the street brawls. I saw the Head of Balliol punch the Head of Merton outside a tavern the other day.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale tilts his head like he does when he’s just learned something new and interesting. Then he goes back to reading. Crowely heaves a sigh, and resumes his efforts to get to sleep. It takes some time, but eventually, he does manage to make it happen. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When he sleeps, he dreams. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s the wee hours of the morning. The full moon is illuminating the room in blue, and there’s a body next to Crowley’s that wasn’t there before. He glances at the desk chair and sees that it’s empty. It’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>Aziraphale. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He turns to face him. Aziraphale isn’t asleep- he’s just staring at Crowley. He very tentatively lays his hand, the one with the pinky ring, over Crowley’s bare chest. He feels the cool metal of the ring on his skin. His heart is thundering. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They don’t say anything, they just meet each other in the middle of the pillow for a passionate kiss. Aziraphale moans immediately, and Crowley takes it as an invitation to roll him onto his back and slide on top of him. He slathers kisses all over Aziraphale’s throat while his angel’s hands tangle in his hair. His hands slide all over </span>
  <em>
    <span>everything- </span>
  </em>
  <span>everything he ever dreamed of touching, all of Aziraphale’s buttery smooth skin. They slide down the outsides of Aziraphale’s thighs and back up the insides, and meet wet heat and curled blond hair. Aziraphale moans again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Take me, Crowley, I want you to-” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Next thing he knows, he’s inside Aziraphale and he’s thrusting. Aziraphale’s head is thrown back against the pillow and his mouth is an open ‘o’ of divine bliss. His nails are digging little crescents into Crowley’s forearms, which are braced on either side of him. And he’s moaning, and sighing, and whimpering Crowley’s name, all of which sets his blood on fucking fire. He distantly registers the bed creaking violently and also a nightingale twittering outside the window as he dives down and sucks a love bite into the flesh of Aziraphale’s throat. He thinks about how much he loves him, loves his obsession with books, his prim demeanor, his compassionate heart, his ability to be a cheeky little shit when the mood strikes; and he thrusts harder. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale tightens around him and cries out as he climaxes. It’s music to Crowley’s ears. Gives him an aggressive sense of satisfaction. He’s about to follow suit, just a few more thrusts into that fucking tight, wet-</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Crowley’s eyes fly open with a gasp. He sits up, chest heaving. It’s late morning and Aziraphale is gone. For once, he’s glad. He sits there for a while, not taking in any sensory information from the world around him, mind centered exclusively on the dream. So real. So deliciously real. Eventually, he gets enough of a grip to fall back down onto his back and close his eyes again. He falls back asleep while remembering the phantom sensation of Aziraphale’s nails in his forearms. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>  Crowley never claimed to be any good at keeping a lid on his lust (nor his love, but the lust is really more of a problem). It gets harder in the years following the Black Death, because Aziraphale decides that he’s willing to engage in an Arrangement, capital-A. They do favors for each other, inform each other of what’s going on in their respective Head Offices, and just generally look out for each other. They’re partners. Crowley is glad that Aziraphale is giving him an inch, so to speak, but it’s also a problem because it makes him want a hundred more. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s 1593 and Crowley is jerking off in his rooms in London. He’s dreaming about Aziraphale, obviously. Specifically, he’s imagining Aziraphale’s thighs on either side of his head as he goes down on him with gusto. He imagines Aziraphale’s hands frantically twisting in his hair, his breathy gasps, his toes curling. Crowley wants to blow his mind. He wants Aziraphale to fucking crush his head between those gorgeous thighs. He wants to eat him out all day long, until he’s begging him to give him a break. Crowley’s getting close, and then- </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s the middle of the day, so he really shouldn’t be all that surprised or angry when someone knocks loudly at his door and interrupts him, but he definitely is. He’s planning to just wait the horrid interloper out, but the asshole won’t stop with his godforsaken knocking, and so Crowley reluctantly puts his clothes back on and answers the door with the most terrifying glare he can muster. It’s a teenage boy, the type who probably sells New World tobacco on the streets. He cowers under Crowley’s gaze.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I-I was asked to deliver this to you, sir!” he stammers out, handing over a letter. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley’s frown deepens. “By who?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Gentleman in a white coat, sir! I didn’t catch his name, sir!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley’s face softens a little. He harumphs, slams the door on the kid, and opens the letter.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Meet me at the shop belonging to Pietro Belucci, bookbinder, in Florence </span>
  </em>
  
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Sometime in the afternoon tomorrow would be nice</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Florence is about as wild as cities get, so he’s slightly disappointed to be going to a bookbinder’s of all places, but Aziraphale surely had good reason to call him there. He </span>
  <em>
    <span>hopes </span>
  </em>
  <span>there’s a good reason, considering he had to interrupt a wank to comply with his demands. The shop is on a corner just off the Ponte Vecchio, and he finds his way quite easily. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s dim inside, and completely silent. The heels of his shoes thunk audibly against the wood floor, and this is what alerts Aziraphale to his presence. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Crowley?” comes a familiar voice from the back room. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley saunters over, enters through a cracked door. There are windows in here, unlike the main area of the shop, and Aziraphale looks beautiful in the soft midday light. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ah! There you are. Come have a look at this.” Aziraphale beckons eagerly, and Crowley obeys. He stops just behind him, where he’s bent over the table, and looks over his shoulder at the manuscripts and books scattered there. “Pietro kindly gave me leave to snoop around his shop while he’s on vacation, and he’s even letting me handle this!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What is it?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My dear fellow! This, if Pietro is to be believed, is a first-edition copy of St Augustine’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>Confessions! </span>
  </em>
  <span>This dates to sometime in the early 5th century!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is that why it looks so shoddy?” Crowley asks, mostly to wind him up. But the vellum really is shoddy- it’s been nibbled at by all manner of vermin, and is terribly yellowed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Crowley! It’s over one thousand years old! All things considered, it’s miraculous it’s intact at all.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley hums. He met Augustine once. Didn’t like him very much. Bit of an overthinker.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So you called me all the way to Florence just to stare at some half-eaten old manuscript.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A </span>
  <em>
    <span>rare </span>
  </em>
  <span>and </span>
  <em>
    <span>remarkable </span>
  </em>
  <span>half-eaten manuscript.” Aziraphale corrects. “I had to show </span>
  <em>
    <span>somebody, </span>
  </em>
  <span>and you were the only person I could think of.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It warms Crowley’s heart a little that Aziraphale called him down just because he was excited about an old book and wanted to show it to him. With a chuckle, he leaves Aziraphale to the manuscript and wanders around the room, inspecting the other books and papers on the shelves and tables. He’s studying a row of prints when a particular title catches his eye. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Did you know your pal </span>
  <em>
    <span>Pietro </span>
  </em>
  <span>was a hawker of pornography?” he asks conversationally, pulling the bound prints off the shelf. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What!” Aziraphale exclaims. He shuffles over to join Crowley. “Of course he’s not a-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley waves the volume at him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good heavens!” Aziraphale’s eyes pop. “Where on earth did you find that?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley gestures at the shelf. He opens the book and is immediately greeted with a nude Venus, seated on a throne in the sky. It’s alright, he’s seen better, but Aziraphale gasps beside him. Crowley raises an eyebrow at him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Crowley! My goodness-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Getting you a bit hot under the collar?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No! Good heavens! I was going to say- I think this is a first edition!” Aziraphale says, blushing. “Look- there’s no poetic accompaniment to the picture.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s right. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I thought the pope burned all the first editions.” he frowns. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So did I.” Aziraphale is using that tone he gets when he’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>really </span>
  </em>
  <span>excited about something. He does love a rare book. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley continues to flip the pages, for his benefit. He saw an original copy of </span>
  <em>
    <span>I Modi </span>
  </em>
  <span>in passing a few decades earlier, just before Marcantonio Raimondi was imprisoned for publishing it and the prints destroyed. This copy looks like the one he remembers. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“To think, a copy secretly surviving in the back room of this old bookshop all this time. And labeled, too!” Aziraphale murmurs. Then: “Oh my goodness.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The fourth print is a devilish horned satyr and a blonde nymph. They’re acquainting themselves with each other, in the Biblical sense, underneath a lush apple tree. To the untrained eye, it might look like an angel and a demon. From afar. If you squint your eyes a little. Or if your mind tends in that direction to begin with. Crowley feels himself flush, and definitely does </span>
  <em>
    <span>not </span>
  </em>
  <span>imagine himself and Aziraphale in their places. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He hears the click of Aziraphale’s throat as he swallows beside him. He glances at him, and is thrilled to see that he’s blushing a little bit. He reaches over and gently closes the book.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well. That’s enough of that.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They have dinner together in a nice tavern that evening before he heads back to London, and Crowley doesn’t say anything about it, even though he very much wants to.         </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley’s always loved Aziraphale, of course. He knew he did the moment Aziraphale told him he’d given away his flaming sword. So, love has always been a component in his fantasies, but it takes center stage more and more as time goes on. The 20th century produces music that speaks to him much more than classical ever did (it was always more Aziraphale’s thing, really), and effectively, it serves to put Crowley in his feelings like never before. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He listens to it all- the Beatles, the Stones, Jimi Hendrix, Eric Clapton. The first time he hears Ambrosia’s “How Much I Feel”, it makes him want to run to Aziraphale’s bookshop, grab hold of him, and never let him go until the end of time. Stevie Ray Vaughn’s “Lenny” makes him want to mingle their celestial forms into a singular energy and disappear into the stars. Prince’s “Purple Rain” makes him dream of making love to Aziraphale in the backseat of the Bentley while rain thunders down and he whispers to Aziraphale all the passion in his heart. Queen makes him want to do all of that and more.   </span>
</p><p>
  <span>In 1975, he hears Queen’s legendary </span>
  <em>
    <span>Love of My Life </span>
  </em>
  <span>for the first time. He’s got a cassette, and plays it in his bedroom while he lies on the bed with his head pillowed on his arms. And he plays it again. And again. And again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>At first, he only hears the heartbreak. It makes him think of Soho eight years ago, when Aziraphale brought him the holy water and then immediately threw up his walls once more, refusing to even let Crowley drive him home. It makes him think of the time he slept for a century, because he’d been terrified that he fucked everything up and would never see Aziraphale again. He thinks of the futility of his love, and then the cruelty of God, who would dangle gifts in front of him with a sword at his chest. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But after a few listens, he hears the tranquility. There’s an understanding that somehow everything will be alright, especially in the little ditty at the very end. And so he begins to dream, like he’s been doing for nearly six thousand long years. He doesn’t imagine sex, or even kissing. He just imagines the two of them living together in the bookshop, in a reality in which Heaven and Hell have no say in the matter. His own flat doesn’t mean anything to him, and he erases it from the picture. It’s just him and Aziraphale. There’s a flat above the bookshop in his dream, with a quaint little kitchen, a cozy lounge full of plants and record players and books, and a small bedroom full nearly to bursting with a big plush bed. He imagines playing records for Aziraphale on a Sunday afternoon while he bakes scones in the kitchen. He’d eventually saunter in to join him, and maybe he’d even be able to entice him away from his work to dance for a little bit. Not a gavotte, just a slow dance, with Crowley’s hands on his waist. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Love of my life, can’t you see?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Bring it back, bring it back </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Don’t take it away from me, because you don’t know</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>What it means to me </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale would tell him </span>
  <em>
    <span>let me go, you devilish fiend, I really ought to check the scones. </span>
  </em>
  <span>And Crowley would just shake his head and smile, and keep hold of him. And they’d dance while the scones burned, too entranced by each other to even notice. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>When I grow older </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I will be there at your side to remind you</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>How I still love you (I still love you) </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Maybe in the evening, Aziraphale would read a book on the sofa while Crowley lounged with his head in his lap. And that’s truly his deepest fantasy- to never again have to return to Hell or worry about being a demon, and instead spend all his time in the arms of the Principality Aziraphale, listening to mushy songs croon from the record player and smelling the smell of burnt pastry and eternal love. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He wants to show the song to Aziraphale, maybe sneakily play it for him while driving him somewhere in the Bentley, as a confession of sorts. But Aziraphale has been keeping him at arms length since 1967. And when he thinks of that, he hears the tragedy in the song all over again. It all has been and will only ever be a fantasy. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>~~~</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>The night breeze is cool and smells of summer flowers, so sweet and refreshing after a day filled to bursting with anxiety and fire and catastrophe and nervous sweats. Sitting down on a random bench in the English countryside to wait for a late-night bus has never felt so good. Aziraphale beside him, drinking wine straight out of the bottle in an uncharacteristic display of abandon. Silent companionship and the beginnings of a new era. Were Crowley a bit more of a ninny, the mushy-gushiness of it all might bring him to tears. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The neon lights of the last bus to Oxford coming around the corner cast the dark street in a blue and red glow. Aziraphale sighs and passes the bottle to Crowley. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, there it is. It says Oxford on the front.” Aziraphale points.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, but it’ll drive to London anyway. He just won’t know why.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I suppose I should get him to drop me off at the bookshop.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley bites his lip and turns to look at his angel, hesitating for a moment. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It burned down, remember?” he asks as tenderly as possible. He watches Aziraphale blink and turn his gaze to the pavement at their feet. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You can stay at my place, if you like.” He offers, palms sweating. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale considers him for a moment. “I-I don’t think my side would like that.” he answers reluctantly. His stutter gives him away. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You don’t have a side anymore.” Crowley reminds him, hoping beyond hope. “Neither of us do. We’re on our own side. Like Agnes said, we’re going to have to choose our faces wisely.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale doesn’t answer him but he smiles a little, and so Crowley knows the answer is ‘yes’. When the bus pulls up, Crowley vanishes the wine bottle and they both get on. A subtle snap of his fingers has the bus driver making an illogical and last-minute detour all the way to London. They’re the only passengers regardless, so there isn’t anyone to inconvenience. Aziraphale will appreciate that. They sit next to each other for once, all pretenses of the past 6000 years finally dropped. They’d been mostly Aziraphale’s (not that it mattered in the end, but Crowley had spent so many centuries pining and running up against those many, many pretenses that the relief of them finally dissolving is… notable). As they settle in for a long ride, Aziraphale sighs extravagantly and sinks back into the roughly-upholstered seat. Crowley doesn’t think he’s ever seen him with anything less than perfect posture. He smiles in amusement.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Goodness. I don’t believe I’ve ever said this before, but I could go for a good long sleep after a week like this.” Aziraphale murmurs, wiggling around a bit to get comfortable. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mm.” Crowley hesitates for a moment, but then throws caution to the wind. “Come here, angel.” He says it softly, holding open his right arm. Aziraphale eyes him curiously, but then acquiesces, Heaven be praised, and rests his head on Crowley’s shoulder, leaning his body into him. Crowley wraps his arm around him and hugs him close, resting his chin in the cloud of white curls atop Aziraphale’s head. They smell like vanilla. His dream from 168 BC is finally coming true, after a delay of over two thousand years. His heart is pounding a little. Just a little. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This is nice.” Aziraphale murmurs, snuggling closer. Alright, now Crowley’s heart is </span>
  <em>
    <span>really </span>
  </em>
  <span>pounding. Of its own accord, the arm around Aziraphale’s shoulders shifts and he begins stroking Aziraphale’s hair. Aziraphale sighs happily. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You know, I’ve never seen your flat. I do hope there’s a kettle at least.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, there will be now.” He waves his hand. “Any particular tea you’ve got a hankering for?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Whatever you like, dear.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They pass the rest of the ride in warm, companionable silence. Crowley is half-certain Aziraphale falls asleep on him at some point. It makes him bold enough to very softly kiss the top of his head. He watches the countryside and then the glittering buildings of London fly by with his cheek pillowed in a white cloud. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eventually the bus pulls up to the front of Crowley’s building, and he gently shakes Aziraphale’s shoulder. He snuffles and sits up, blinking and rubbing his eyes. So he had been sleeping. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Goodness me, I didn’t mean to drift off like that. Sorry I wasn’t much entertainment.” he says apologetically, getting to his feet and casting a tender look at Crowley. He waves it away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wasn’t a problem. We did just prevent Armageddon, I think a nap is deserved.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They disembark after Aziraphale thanks the driver profusely for his trouble. Crowley leads the way upstairs and feels Aziraphale’s curious eyes on his back as he unlocks his door. An inquisitive head appears over his shoulder, closer than Aziraphale usually gets to him. It makes him fumble his keys. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Your lock is a snake.” he remarks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Astute observation, angel. I’ve always said you ought to join a legion of detectives of some sort.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale rolls his eyes. “Am I not allowed to make any comments whatsoever?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Only good ones.” He finally gets the lock to cooperate and he lets them inside. Aziraphale wanders past him as he shuts the door, inspecting the high ceilings and the sparse decor. Crowley feels a rare bout of self-consciousness and watches him meander. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thoughts? Opinions?” he asks to diffuse the silence. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hmm. It’s as I expected.” Aziraphale replies cryptically. “Oh, I love these plants!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t be nice to them, or they’ll think they can get away with anything.” Crowley warns, turning briefly to drop his keyring and shades into the gold saucer on the end table by the door. When he turns back around, Aziraphale is standing in front of him looking nervous. He blinks in surprise. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“To be quite honest, I… I’m not all that interested in critiquing your decor at the moment.” Aziraphale says quietly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oh. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Oh. </span>
  </em>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley looks at him for a long moment, worried he might be misinterpreting, or projecting, or just hearing what he wants to hear, but… Aziraphale looks bashful and hopeful and warm all at once, and can’t seem to keep his gaze in one place, and his hands are fidgety, and… Maybe… </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley steps forward, closing the gap between them, and brings both hands up to cup Aziraphale’s face, tilting it up towards him. He brushes the skin of his cherub cheeks with his thumbs. Aziraphale’s pretty eyes are bluer than any ocean he’s ever seen in his long life. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Have I ever mentioned my eternal, undying love for you?” he murmurs, leaning in. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale exhales shakily. “No, I think I’d remember if you did.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then they’re kissing. It’s uncoordinated and more than a little sloppy, as he’s never had any practice and he assumes Aziraphale hasn’t either, but Aziraphale sighs in the back of his throat like it’s the best thing he’s ever experienced. They kiss so passionately that Aziraphale stumbles backwards, trips over his own feet, and tumbles them both to the stone floor. They disconnect, gasping, Crowley sprawled atop Aziraphale. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Whoops. I must apologize, I’ve no experience whatsoever.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Me neither.” Crowley dives down and begins kissing Aziraphale’s neck, biting lightly and sucking in order to bruise the skin. “Thought about it loads, though.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale yelps at the love bites, and then moans, and winds his arms around Crowley’s shoulders. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Crowley, I- I don’t believe I’ve mentioned </span>
  <em>
    <span>my </span>
  </em>
  <span>undying love for </span>
  <em>
    <span>you,</span>
  </em>
  <span> either.” he pants, twisting his body around in ways that light a fire in Crowley’s gut. He pulls back and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So mention it, angel.” He’s so desperate to hear him say it, has waited so long. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I love you.” Aziraphale answers immediately. “I </span>
  <em>
    <span>love</span>
  </em>
  <span> you.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley can’t stop the splitting smile spreading across his face. He runs his hands over Aziraphale’s thighs and returns to his throat. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I love you too. More than anything in the whole universe. Loved you since the moment I saw you. Loved you all along. Never stopped loving you. Can’t even remember a time when I didn’t love you.” Crowley whispers into his skin, in between kisses. Aziraphale cries out, clutching at his shoulders. He’s breathing heavily, head thrown back to give Crowley room. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Can you feel it, angel? How much I love you?” Crowley seizes Aziraphale’s right hand and places it over his chest, right over his heart. Aziraphale groans louder. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Yes.” </span>
  </em>
  <span>he breathes, trembling. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They kiss again, mostly tongue. Crowley has never been much for the sexual temptations (that’s more Hastur’s thing, which is truly a repulsive thought), usually he tempts mortals by other means, but now he wonders in awe at the power of desire. When Aziraphale spreads his legs and squeezes Crowley’s skinny hips between his thighs, it makes him feel like he’s being drowned in flames. In the best way possible. He’d do just about anything Aziraphale asked of him. He kisses him once more and withdraws, bracing both hands on either side of Aziraphale’s head and panting. Aziraphale looks a wreck beneath him, flushed pink and red-lipped, with desire written all over his angelic face. It makes Crowley feel </span>
  <em>
    <span>drunk. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Crowley…” Aziraphale pleads, running his hands over Crowley’s arms. “Will you… take me to bed?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley doesn’t need to be asked twice. He scoops Aziraphale up off the floor and carries him right to the bedroom. They should really probably be putting their heads together to figure out Agnes’ final prophecy insead of frantically making love like a bunch of idiots, but at the moment, Crowley doesn’t give a single godforsaken fuck. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s just like Crowley’s fantasies. They’re naked, he’s on top of Aziraphale, his angel’s thighs spread. He can hear a nightingale cooing outside the window. The bed, which has never creaked before, is creaking as they move. He could almost believe he was back in 14th century Oxford, asleep and dreaming, if not for Aziraphale’s nails digging into his forearms.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale’s got a cunt, too, like he tends to have in Crowley’s fantasies.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Just easier this way, really.” is Aziraphale’s breathy justification. Who cares. Crowley would take him with literally anything, and even nothing at all. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s got a chance to fulfill another long-held fantasy now, and he doesn’t waste the opportunity. He kisses down Aziraphale’s body, down between his legs, which makes Aziraphale gasp urgently. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good heavens, Crowley- You don’t have to- </span>
  <em>
    <span>Oh!” </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley’s a snake underneath the human-y exterior, and so his tongue is longer than most, with a forked tip. He puts it to better use than he ever has talking. The saliva, plus Aziraphale’s excitement, turn everything into a veritable tsunami within minutes. Aziraphale’s thighs are trembling and his hands are twisted deliciously, painfully tight in Crowley’s hair. When his moans start getting breathier and more urgent, Crowley pulls away and wipes his mouth. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Take me, please, Crowley-” Aziraphale gasps out, grabbing his skinny hips and dragging them forward so that Crowley’s dick slides up and down through his wet folds. “I don’t mean to be impatient, but I have been waiting a </span>
  <em>
    <span>frightfully </span>
  </em>
  <span>long time!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Christ.” Crowley mumbles. He takes hold of himself and pressed up, up inside. It’s shockingly tight. The head pops in and Aziraphale hisses, toes curling. From there, it’s easy to slide the rest in, and Crowley’s hipbones meet the backs of Aziraphale’s thighs. Aziraphale lets out a shuddering groan. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fuck.” Crowley pants. Fantasy didn’t even come close to preparing him for the sensation of being inside Aziraphale. His imagination is fucking pitiful. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He starts fucking him slowly, trying his best to be gentle. But Aziraphale adjusts rather quickly, and soon he’s digging his heels into Crowley’s lower back to egg him on, begging him to go faster. His angel’s wish has always been his command, and so he obeys. He pounds into Aziraphale, drags him into his thrusts with two hands on his hips, and Aziraphale is moaning exuberantly, the damn hedonist. The bed is really creaking now, and the headboard is slamming into the wall. A sense of mad desperation, a sense that things are spiraling way out of control, starts bubbling up inside him, and the wet squelch echoing from between their bodies is not helping at all. From the way Aziraphale is clawing at his shoulders, he can tell he’s feeling it too. Within moments, Aziraphale starts to </span>
  <em>
    <span>glow. </span>
  </em>
  <span>And not in the sense of </span>
  <em>
    <span>oh, he’s beautiful, </span>
  </em>
  <span>though that certainly is true, but literally </span>
  <em>
    <span>glow- </span>
  </em>
  <span>suddenly there’s golden light coating him from head to toe. Crowley can feel it against his own skin- it’s warm, cheerful, kind. It’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>Aziraphale, </span>
  </em>
  <span>his true form. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re bursting at the seams a bit here, angel.” he gasps. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale looks down at himself. “Can’t help it, I’m afraid!” </span>
</p><p><span>Crowley suddenly feels his own corporeal form cracking at the edges. He groans, dives down, and sinks his teeth into Aziraphale’s shoulder (which earns him a cry) to try and ground himself, but it’s futile. Smokey gray starts bleeding into gold, and now blue-irised clairvoyant eyes are popping up all over Aziraphale’s body and in the golden aura (he has 40,000 of them, or so he’s said)</span><em><span>. </span></em><span>Crowley squeezes his eyes shut and feels himself twist and twine into Aziraphale. He’d been a little worried about this happening (would</span> <span>they explode if their true forms came into contact?), but he’s thrilled to find that it doesn’t hurt- feels bloody </span><em><span>amazing, </span></em><span>actually. He’s also a little prideful that he is, without a doubt, the first demon to ever discover that fact. </span></p><p>
  <span>They come at the same time, and suddenly they’re not on Earth at all. They’re just a wild cacophony of gold and gray in an abyss, mixing into a glittering dark nebula more beautiful than any Crowley has ever created on his own. He feels Aziraphale’s sexual ecstasy as if it’s his own. He feels Aziraphale in every single atom of his form. He finally understands that this was the Plan all along; that God threw him out of Heaven because he was always meant to be Crowley, the Crowley to Aziraphale’s Aziraphale. They were always supposed to forge a different path together, beyond Heaven and Hell and closer to Her than either one. He’d never realized that not a single moment of his life has ever been wasted. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Some time later, probably past midnight, he blinks his eyes open to see his bedroom ceiling. There’s an angel curled up against him, breathing and glowing softly. Well. Another fantasy checked off the list, he thinks with a giddy smile. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Goodness me.” Aziraphale says, sounding equally as giddy. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mm.” Crowley hums in agreement. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He snaps his fingers, and the record player starts up. It’s about fifty years late, but he’ll play it for Aziraphale now. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Crowley, dear.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, angel?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why don’t you come and live with me at the bookshop? After we’ve tied up our business with our respective offices, of course. I could put a nice flat on top of it, with plenty of sun for your plants, and-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Yes.</span>
  </em>
  <span>” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley curls his arm and brings Aziraphale closer so that he can press a kiss to his cheek, like he’d dreamed about doing six thousand years ago in a Garden of a time immemorial. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>okay but for real, you gotta listen to "Lenny" by Stevie Ray Vaughn. FOR REAL</p></blockquote></div></div>
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